I9o| 


(LA 


North 
Vmd: 


DlueJKylre/j 
Chicago^ 


Of  this  book  there  have  been  six  hundred  and 
twenty-five  copies  printed  :  twenty-five  on 
Imperial  Japan  vellum ;  one  hundred  on  Shan- 
don  paper  for  illumination  ;  and  five  hundred 
on  Shandon  paper,  not  illumined. 

This  being  number   ~3 

v^x  C  *~J 


Copyright,  1900,  by 
Langworthy  &  Stevens 


JL!  TRUE  BELIEVER. 
Herein  is  set  forth  certain 
verse  inspired  by  the  Tent- 
Maker  whose  tongue  was  of 
gold,  and  him  who  found 
and  re-cast  that  forgotten 
tdngiie  for  us. 

The  task  of  selection  has 
not  been  easy;  everyone  with 
a  voice  has  sung  his  like  or  dislike  of  our 
Omar ;  every  edition  has  something  of  the 
sort. 

I  do  not  possess  a  collection  of  even  the 
American  editions — I  gave  it  up  long  ago. 
Mr.  Mosher  of  Portland  is  suspected  oftrying 
to  keep  pace  with  them.  'Tis  told  he  wrote 
the  Philosopher  Ellis  for  a  Rubaiyat.  Mr. 
Ellis  replied  that  the  Philosopher  Press  had 
not  printed  a  Rubaiyat;  and  as  this  was  unique 
he  had  thoughts  of  advertising  the  fadl. 

Mr.  Mosher  lists  in  his  latest  bibliography 
XXXV  items  in  American  reprints  alone  and 
one  of  these  items  covers  twenty-six  editions. 
So  if  you  have  written  anything  that  might  be 


here,  you  may  believe  it  is  because  I  have  not 
seen  it. 

Some  of  you  will  not  like  the  satirical  verse 
and  parodies  which  have  been  included.  For 
your  sakes  they  have  been  set  by  themselves, 
that  you  may  avoid  them.  But  does  not  the 
kinship  of  Omar  to  modern  thought  lie  in  that 
he  was  possessed  of  moods  —  his  worship  of 
wisdom,  his  pursuit  of  that  trio  of  pleasures 
which  some  would  name  sin,  his  repentances 
—  and  a  sense  of  humor. 

"But,  through  the  shift  of  mood  and  mood, 
"Mine  ancient  humour  saves  him  whole — 

"The  cynic  devil  in  his  blood 

"That  bids  him  mock  his  hurrying  soul." 

Did  some  one  say  he  didn't  hurry  ?  — 
Did  he  not  hurry  his  soul  from  mood  to 

mood  and  laugh  at  his  own  futility  the  while? 

In  this  spirit,  would  he  not  enjoy  a  quip  at 

himself? 


"Indeed  the  idols  I  have  loved  so  long 
"Have  done  my  credit  in  this  World  much 

wrong  : 

"Have  drown'd  my  Glory  in  a  shallow  Cup, 
"And  sold  my  Reputation  for  a  song. 

"Indeed,  indeed,  Repentance  oft  before 
"I  swore  —  but  was  I  sober  when  I  swore  ? 
"And  then  and  then  came  Spring,  and 

Rose-in-hand 
"My  thread-bare  Penitence  apieces  tore." 

Give  ye  thanks  to  all  whose  flowers  of 
speech  are  gathered  here  ;  thanks  give  I  to  all 
who  aided  and  abetted  the  gathering,  and  es- 
pecially to  Nathan  Haskell  Dole,  who  blazed 
a  path. 

E.  M.  M. 


THE  GRAVE  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM 


NAMED  Nizami,  child  of 

Samarcand, 
The  holy  place  whose  towers 

aspire  to  heaven, 
Whose  domes  are  blue  as 

heaven's  inverted  cup, 
The  consecrated  shrine,  the 

head  of  Islam, 
Whose  heart  is  at  Meccah, 
the  happy  spot 
Where  bloom  the  gardens  of  the  Heart's 

delight; 
Where,  in  the  house  upon  the  Shepherd's 

Hill, 

Wise  men  pursue  the  pathway  of  the  stars  — 
I,  even  Nizami,  write  this  record  down 
In  God's  name,  merciful,  compassionate, 
A  proof  of  his  compassion. 

When  my  youth 

Burned  in  my  body  like  a  new-fed  flame, 
When  wisdom  seemed  an  easy  flower  to 
pluck, 


And  knowledge  fruit  that  ripens  in  a  day  — 
Ah  me  !  that  merry  When  so  long  ago  — 
I  was  a  pupil  of  that  man  of  men, 
Omar,  the  Tent-Maker  of  Naishapur, 
That  is  Khorassan's  crown,  Omar  the  wise, 
Whose  wisdom  read  the  golden  laws  of  life, 
And  made  them  ours  forever  in  his  songs, 
Omar  the  star-gazer. 

One  day  by  chance, 
I  taxing  all  my  student's  store  of  wit 
With  thought  of  is  and  is  not,  good  and  bad, 
And  fondly  dreaming  that  my  fingers  soon 
Would  close  upon  the  key  of  heaven  and 

earth, 

I  met  my  master  in  a  garden  walk, 
Musing  as  was  his  wont,  I  knew  not  what, 
Perhaps  some  better  mode  of  marshalling 
Those  daily  soldiers  of  the  conquering  years, 
Perchance  some  subtler  science  which  the  stars 
Ciphered  in  fire  upon  the  vaulted  sky 
For  him  alone,  perchance  on  some  rare  rhymes 
Pregnant  with  mighty  thoughts,  or  on  some 


Star-eyed  and  cypress-slender,  tulip-cheeked 

8 


And  jasmine-bosomed,  for  he  loved  such  well, 
And  deemed  it  wisdom. 

Omar  saw  me  not, 
And  would  have  passed  me  curtained  in  his 

thoughts ; 

But  I,  perked  up  with  youthful  consequence 
At  mine  own  wisdom,  plucked  him  by  the 

sleeve, 

And  with  grave  salutation,  as  befits 
The  pupil  to  his  master,  stayed  his  course 
And  craved  his  patience. 

Omar  gazed  at  me 
With  the  grave  sweetness  which  his  servants 

loved, 

And  gave  me  leave  to  speak,  which  I,  on  fire 
To  tell  the  thing  I  thought,  made  haste  to  do, 
And  poured  my  babble  in  the  master's  ear 
Of  solving  human  doubt. 

When  I  had  done, 

And,  panting,  looked  into  my  master's  eyes 
To  read  therein  approval  of  my  plan, 
He  turned  his  head,  and  for  a  little  while 
Waited  in  silence,  while  my  petulant  mind 
Galloped  again  the  course  of  argument 


And  found  no  flaw,  all  perfect. 

Still  he  stood 

Silent,  and  I,  the  riddle-reader,  vexed 
At  long-delayed  approval,  touched  again 
His  sleeve,  and  with  impatient  reverence 
Said, 

"Master,  speak,  that  I  may  garner  up 
In  scented  manuscript  the  thoughts  of  price 
That  fall  from  Omar's  lips." 

He  smiled  again 

In  sweet  forgiveness  of  my  turbulent  mood, 
And  with  a  kindly  laughter  in  his  eyes 
He  said, 

"I  have  been  thinking,  when  I  die, 
That  I  should  like  to  slumber  where  the  wind 
May  heap  my  tomb  with  roses." 

So  he  spoke, 

And  then  with  thoughtful  face  and  quiet  tread 
He  passed  and  left  me  staring,  most  amazed 
At  such  a  pearl  from  such  a  sea  of  thought, 
And  marveling  that  great  philosophers 
Can  sometimes  pay  so  little  heed  to  truth 
When  truth  is  thrust  before  them.     God  be 
praised  ! 

10 


I  am  wiser  now,  and  grasp  no  golden  key. 
Years  came  and  went,  and  Omar  passed  away, 
First  from  those  garden  walks  of  Samarcand 
Where  he  and  I  so  often  watched  the  moon 
Silver  the  bosoms  of  the  cypresses, 
And  so  from  out  the  circle  of  my  life, 
And  in  due  season  out  of  life  itself; 
And  his  great  name  became  a  memory 
That  clung  about  me  like  the  scent  of  flowers 
Beloved  in  boyhood,  and  the  wheeling  years 
Ground  pleasure  into  dust  beneath  my  feet ; 
And  so  the  world  wagged  till  there  came  a  day 
When  I  that  had  been  young  and  was  not 

young, 

I  found  myself  at  Naishapur,  and  there 
Bethought  me  of  my  master  dead  and  gone, 
And  the  musk-scented  preface  of  my  youth. 
Then  to  myself  I  said,  "Nizami,  rise 
And  seek  the  tomb  of  Omar."   So  I  sought, 
And  after  seeking  found,  and,  lo  !  it  lay 
Beyond  a  garden  full  of  roses,  full 
As  the  third  heaven  is  full  of  happy  eyes ; 
And  every  wind  that  whispered  through  the 

trees 

ii 


Scattered  a  heap  of  roses  on  his  grave ; 
Yea,  roses  leaned,  and  from  their  odorous 

hearts 

Rained  petals  on  his  marble  monument, 
Crimson  as  lips  of  angels.   Straight  my  mind, 
Sweeping  the  desert  of  departed  yeers, 
Leaped  to  that  garden  speech  in  Samarcand, 
The  cypress  grove,  my  fretful  questioning, 
And  the  mild  beauty  of  my  master's  face. 
Then  I  knelt  down  and  glorified  Allah, 
Who  is  compassionate  and  merciful, 
That  of  his  boundless  mercy  he  forgave 
That  singing  sinner ;  for  I  surely  knew 
That  all  the  leaves  of  every  rose  that  dripped 
Its  tribute  on  the  tomb  wherfc  Omar  sleeps, 
Were  tears  and  kisses  that  should  smooth  away 
His  record  of  offence  ;  for  Omar  sinned, 
Since  Omar  was  a  man. 

He  wished  to  sleep 

Beneath  a  veil  of  roses ;  Heaven  heard, 
Forgave,  and  granted,  and  the  perfumed  pall 
Hides  the  shrine's  whiteness.  Glory  to  Allah ! 

Justin  Huntly  McCarthy 

(From  "The  Quatrains  of  Omar  Khayyam." 
Copyright  1898,  by  Brentano's.) 


Upon  the  planting  of  a  rose  from 
Naishapur  over  FitzGerald's  grave. 


Here  on  FitzGerald's  grave  from  Omar's 
tomb 

To  lay  fit  tribute  pilgrim  singers  flock  ; 
Long  with  a  double  fragrance  let  it  bloom, 

The  Rose  of  I  ram  on  an  English  stock. 

Grant  Allen 


"INSCRIPTION" 


EIGN  here,  triumphant  rose 

from  Omar's  grave, 
Borne  by  a  fakir  o'er  the 

Persian  wave ; 
Reign  with  fresh  pride, 
since  here  a  heart  is 
sleeping 

That  double  glory  to  your 
Master  gave. 


Hither  let  many  a  pilgrim  step  be  bent 
To  greet  the  rose  re-risen  in  banishment ; 
Here  richer  crimsons  may  its  cup  be 

keeping 
Than  brimmed  it  ere  from  Naishapur  it  went. 

Edmund  Gosse 


OMAR'S  ROSE 

ROM  Naishapur  to  England, 

from  the  tomb 
Where  Omar  slumbers  to  the 

Narrow  Room 
That  shrines  FitzGerald's 

ashes,  Persia  sends 
Perfume  and  Pigment  of  her 

Rose  to  bloom. 

Wedded  with  Rose  of  Eng- 
land, for  a  sign 
That  English  lips,  transmitting  the  divine 

High  piping  music  of  the  song  that  ends, 
As  it  began,  with  Wine  and  Wine  and  Wine, 

Across  the  ages  caught  the  words  that  fell 
From  Omar's  mouth  and  made  them  audible 
To  the  unnumbered  sitters  at  Life's  Feast 
Who  wear  their  hearts  out  over  Heaven  and 
Hell. 

Vex  not  today  with  wonder  which  were  best, 
The  Student,  Scholar,  Singer  of  the  West, 

Or  Singer,  Scholar,  Student  of  the  East  — 
The  Soul  of  Omar  burned  in  England's  breast. 


And  howsoever  Autumn's  breezes  blow 
About  the  Rose,  and  Winter's  fingers  throw, 

In  mockery  of  Oriental  noons, 
Upon  this  grass  the  monumental  snow  ; 

Still  in  our  dreams  the  Eastern  Rose  survives 
Lending  diviner  fragrance  to  our  lives  : 
The  world  is  old,  cold,  warned  by  waning 

moons, 
But  Omar's  creed  in  English  verse  revives. 

The  fountain  in  the  tulip-tinted  dale, 
The  manuscript  of  some  melodious  tale 

Babbling  of  love  and  lovers  passion-pale, 
Of  Rose,  of  Cypress,  and  of  Nightingale  ; 

The  cup  that  Saki  proffers  to  our  lips, 
The  cup  from  which  the  Rose-Red  Mercy 

drips, 

Bidding  forget  how,  like  a  sinking  sail, 
Day  after  day  into  the  darkness  slips  ; 

The  wisdom  that  the  Watcher  of  the  Skies 
Won  from  the  wandering  stars  that  soothed 

his  eyes, 

The  legend  writ  below,  around,  above  — 
"One  thing  at  least  is  certain,  this  Life  flies  ;" 


These  were  the  gifts  of  Omar —  these  he  gave 
Full-handed  :  his  Disciple  sought  to  save 

Some  portion  for  his  people,  and  their  love 
Plants  Omar's  Rose  upon  an  English  Grave. 

J.  H.  McC. 


18 


HEAR  US,  YE  WINDS 

My  tomb  shall  be  on  a  spot  where  the  North 
Wind  may  strow  roses  upon  it. 

Omar  Khayyam  to  Kwajah  Nizami. 


EAR  us,  ye  winds  ! 
From  where  the  North 
Wind  s trows 
Blossoms  that  crown  the 

"King  of  Wisdom's"  tomb, 
The  trees  here  planted  bring 

remembered  bloom 
Dreaming  in  seed  of  Love's 

ancestral  Rose 
To  meadows  where  a  braver  North  Wind 

blows 
O'er  greener  grass,  o'er  hedge-rose,  may, 

and  broom, 

And  all  that  make  East  England's  field- 
perfume 
Dearer  than  any  fragrance  Persia  knows :  — 


Hear  us,  ye  winds,  North,  East,  and  West, 

and  South  ! 

This  granite  covers  him  whose  golden  mouth 
Made  wise  ev'n  the  word  of  Wisdom's  King  ; 
Blow  softly  o'er  the  grave  of  Omar's  herald 
Till  roses  rich  of  Omar's  dust  shall  spring 
From  richer  dust  of  Suffolk's  rare  FitzGerald, 

Theodore  Watts 


Verse  read  at  meetings  of  the  Omar 
Khayyam  Club  of  London. 


OMAR  KHAYYAM     (1898) 


MAR,  when  it  was  time 

for  thee  to  die, 
Thou  saidst  to  those 

around  thee,  Let  me  lie 
Where  the  North  Wind 
may  scatter  on  my  grave 
Roses ;  and  now  thou  hast 

what  thou  didst  crave, 
Since  from  the  northern 
shore  the  northern  blast 
Roses  each  year  upon  thy  tomb  hath  cast. 
Thy  more  familiar  comrades,  who  have  sped 
Many  a  health  to  thee,  send  roses  red. 
We  are  but  guests  unto  the  tavern  brought, 
And  have  a  flower  the  paler  for  that  thought ; 
Yet  is  our  love  so  rich  that  roses  white 
Shall  fall  empurpled  on  thy  tomb  tonight. 

Stephen  Phillips 


22 


«97) 


ELL,  Omar  Khayyam 

wrote  of  Wine, 
And  all  of  us,  sometimes, 

must  dine  ; 
And  Omar  Khayyam 

wrote  of  Roses, 
And  all  of  us,  no  doubt, 

have  noses ; 
And  Omar  Khayyam 
wrote  of  Love, 

Which  some  of  us  are  not  above. 
Also  he  charms  to  this  extent, 
We  don't  know,  always,  what  he  meant. 
Lastly,  the  man's  so  plainly  dead 
We  can  heap  honors  on  his  head. 

Austin  Dobson 


OMAR'S  FRIENDS  AT  BURFORD 
BRIDGE     (1895) 

OT  mid  the  London  dust 

and  glare, 
The  wheels  that  rattle,  the 

lamps  that  flare, 
But  down  in  the  deep 
green  Surrey  dingle, 
You  drink  to  Omar  in 

fragrant  air. 
*          *          * 

Here,  he  said,  was  a  tale  to  tell 

Of  Burford  Bridge  in  the  lonely  dell, 

A  tale  of  the  friends  of  the  leal  White  Roses, 
But  he  told  it  not,  who  had  told  it  well. 

Drink  to  him  then,  ere  the  night  be  sped  ! 
Drink  to  his  name  while  the  wine  is  red ! 

To  Tearlach  drink,  and  Tusitala, 
To  the  king  that  is  gone,  and  the  friend  that's 
dead! 


Out  of  the  silence  if  men  may  hear, 
Into  the  silence  faint  and  clear, 

The  voice  may  pierce  of  loving  kindness, 
And  leal  remembrance  may  yet  be  dear. 

Andrew  Lang 


NE  cup  in  joy  before  the 

banquet  ends, 
One  thought  for  vanished, 

for  transfigured  friends, 
Stars  on  the  living  cope  of 

heaven  embossed, 
The  heaven  of  Love  that 

o'er  us  beams  and 

bends ! 

Roses  and  bay  for  many  a  phantom  head  ! 
Death  is  but  what  we  make  it  —  for  the  dead ; 
Held  hard  in  memory,  those  we  loved  and 

lost 
Shall  live  while  blood  is  warm  and  wine  is  red, 

Edmund  Gosse 


ROS  ROSARUM     (1897) 


O  know  the  love-song  that 

might  best  avail, 
I  made  petition  to  the 

nightingale, 

Whose  melody  made  an- 
swer :  "Lo,  the  rose 
Hath  all  my  secret  and  may 
tell  the  tale. 


"When  to  the  rose  I  pour 
my  song  for  wine, 

Thereof  let  wisdom  what  it  can  divine  ; 
I  know  this  only,  that  I  sing  myself 
Unto  myself,  and  stay  not  to  define." 

Then,  eager  to  fulfil  such  fair  behest, 
I  wandered  forth  upon  the  rose's  quest, 

But  all  in  vain,  since  I  might  not  discern 
The  rose-queen  of  all  roses  from  the  rest. 


Should  she  give  aid,  who  glows  with  empire's 

red, 
Or  she,  whose  white  doth  heaven's  own 

court  bespread  ? 

Or  she,  that  scatters  bloom  at  Naishapur, 
Tell  me,  perchance,  what  Omar  left  unsaid  ? 

At  last  the  lapwing  piped  to  me  :  "My  son, 
Thy  fill  of  doing  gets  thee  nothing  done  ; 
We  flit  in  this  brief  show  from  flow'r  to 

flow'r 
Of  many  roses,  but  the  rose  is  one." 

Sir  Frederick  Pollock 


OMAR  KHAYYAM 

RE  AT  Omar,  here  tonight 

we  drain  a  bowl 
Unto  thy  long-since  trans- 
migrated Soul, 
Ours  all  unworthy  in 

thy  place  to  sit, 
Ours  still  to  read  in  life's 
enchanted  scroll. 

For  us  like  thee  a  little 
hour  to  stay, 
For  us  like  thee  a  little  hour  to  play, 

A  little  hour  for  wine  and  love  and  song, 
And  we  too  turn  the  glass  and  take  our  way. 

So  many  years  your  tomb  the  roses  strew, 
Yet  not  one  penny  wiser  we  than  you, 
The  doubts  that  wearied  you  are  with  us 

still, 
And,  Heaven  be  thanked  !  your  wine  is  with 

us  too. 

For  have  the  years  a  better  message  brought 
To  match  the  simple  wisdom  that  you  taught : 
29 


Love,  wine  and  verse,  and  just  a  little 

bread  — 
For  these  to  live  and  count  the  rest  as  nought? 

Therefore,  Great  Omar,  here  our  homage  deep 
We  drain  to  thee,  though  all  too  fast  asleep 

In  Death's  intoxication  art  thou  sunk 
To  know  the  solemn  revels  that  we  keep. 

Oh,  had  we,  best-beloved  poet,  but  the  power 
From  our  own  lives  to  pluck  one  golden  hour, 

And  give  it  unto  thee  in  thy  great  need, 
How  would  we  welcome  thee  to  this  bright 
bower  ! 

O  life  that  is  so  warm,  'twas  Omar's  too  ; 
O  wine  that  is  so  red,  he  drank  of  you : 

Yet  life  and  wine  must  all  be  put  away, 
And  we  go  sleep  with  Omar  —  yea,  tis  true. 

And  when  in  some  great  city  yet  to  be 
The  sacred  wine  is  spilt  for  you  and  me, 
To  those  great  fames  that  we  have  yet  to 

build, 
We'll  know  as  little  of  it  all  as  he. 

Richard  LeGalliene 
3° 


Oth 


er  verse 


TO  K.  FITZGERALD 


UT  none  can  say 
That  Lenten  fare  makes 

Lenten  thought, 
Who  reads  your  Golden 

Eastern  lay, 
Than  which  I  know  no 

version  done 
In  English  more  divinely 

well ; 

A  planet  equal  to  the  sun 
Which  cast  it,  that  large  infidel 
Your  Omar ;  and  your  Omar  drew 
Full-handed  plaudits  from  our  best 
In  modern  letters,  and  from  two, 
Old  friends  outvaluing  all  the  rest, 

Two  voices  heard  on  earth  no  more. 
***** 

Alfred  Tennyson 


TO  OMAR  KHAYYAM 

(Letters  to  Dead  Authors) 


ISE  Omar,  do  the  Southern 
Breezes  fling 

Above  your  grave,at  ending 

of  the  Spring, 
The  Snowdrift  of  the  pet- 
als of  the  Rose, 

The  wild  white  Roses  you 
were  wont  to  sing  ? 

Far  in  the  South  I  know 
a  Land  divine, 

And  there  is  many  a  Saint  and  many  a  Shrine, 
And  over  all  the  shrines  the  Blossom  blows 
Of  Roses  that  were  dear  to  you  as  wine. 

You  were  a  Saint  of  unbelieving  days, 
Liking  your  life,  and  happy  in  men's  Praise  ; 
Enough  for  you  the  Shade  beneath  the 

Bough, 
Enough  to  watch  the  wild  World  go  its  Ways. 

33 


Dreadless  and  hopeless  thou  of  Heaven  or 

Hell, 

Careless  of  Words  thou  hadst  not  Skill  to 
-  spell, 

Content  to  know  not  all  thou  knowest  now, 
What's  Death  ?  Doth  any  Pitcher  dread  the 
Well? 

The  Pitchers  we,  whose  Maker  makes  them 

in, 

Shall  he  torment  them  if  they  chance  to  spill  ? 

Nay,  like  the  broken  potsherds  are  we  cast 

Forth  and  forgotten  —  and  what  will  be  will ! 

So  still  were  we,  before  the  Months  began 
That  rounded  us  and  shaped  us  into  Man. 

So  still  we  shall  be,  surely,  at  the  last, 
Dreamless,  untouched  of  Blessing  or  of  Ban  ! 

Ah,  strange  it  seems  that  this  thy  common 

thought  — 
How  all  things  have  been,  aye,  and  shall  be 

nought  — 

Was  ancient  Wisdom  in  thine  ancient  East, 
In  those  old  Days  when  Senlac  fight  was 

fought, 

34 


Which  gave  our  England  for  a  captive  Land 
To  pious  Chiefs  of  a  believing  Band, 

A  gift  to  the  Believer  from  the  Priest, 
Tossed  from  the  holy  to  the  blood-red  Hand! 

Yea,  thou  wert  singing  when  that  Arrow  clave 
Through  helm  and  brain  of  him  who  could 

not  save 
His  England,  even  of  Harold  Godwin's 

son  ; 
The  high  tide  murmurs  by  the  Hero's  grave  ! 

And  thou  wert  wreathing  Roses — who  can 

tell  ?— 
Or  chanting  for  some  girl  that  pleased  thee 

well, 

Or  satst  at  wine  in  Naishapur,  when  dun 
The  twilight  veiled  the  field  where  Harold 

fell! 

The  salt  Sea-waves  above  him  rage  and  roam  ! 

Along  the  white  Walls  of  his  guarded  Home 

No  Zephyr  stirs  the  Rose,  but  o'er  the  wave 

The  wild  Wind  beats  the  Breakers  into  Foam! 


35 


And  dear  to  him,  as  Roses  were  to  thee, 

Rings  long  the  Roar  of  Onset  of  the  Sea  ! 

The  Swans  Patb  of  his  Fathers  ;  in  his 

grave , 
His  sleep,  methinks,  is  sound  as  thine  can  be. 

His  was  the  Age  of  Faith,  when  all  the  West 

Looked  to  the  Priest  for  torment  or  for  rest ; 

And  thou  wert  living  then,  and  didst  not 

heed 
The  Saint  who  banned  thee  or  the  Saint  who 

blessed  ! 

Ages  of  Progress  !     These  eight  hundred 

years 
Hath  Europe  shuddered  with  her  hopes  or 

fears, 

And  now  ! — She  listens  in  the  wilderness 
To  thee,  and  half  believeth  what  she  hears  ! 

Hadst  thou  THE  SECRET?     Ah,  and  who  may 

tell  ? 
"An  hour  we  have,"  thou  saidst :  "Ah, 

waste  it  well !  " 

An  hour  we  have  and  yet  Eternity 
Looms  o'er  us,  and  the  thought  of  Heaven 

or  Hell ! 

36 


Nay,  we  can  never  be  as  wise  as  thou, 
O  idle  singer  'neath  the  blossomed  bough  ! 
Nay,  and  we  cannot  be  content  to  die; 
We  cannot  shirk  the  questions  "Where  ?"  and 
"How?" 

Ah,  not  from  learned  Peace  and  gay  Content 
Shall  we  of  England  go  the  way  he  went — 
The  Singer  of  the  Red  Wine  and  the 

Rose- 
Nay,  otherwise  than  his  our  Day  is  spent ! 

Serene  he  dwelt  in  fragrant  Naishapur, 
But  we  must  wander  while  the  Stars  endure, 
He  knew  THE  SECRET:  we  have  none 

that  knows, 
No  Man  so  sure  as  Omar  once  was  sure  ! 

Andrew  Lang 


TO  ANDREW  LANG  (Dedication) 


EAR  singer  of  the  North, 

for  all  the  hours 
The  happy  hours  I  owe 

you  take  at  least, 
These  echoes  of  our  singer 

of  the  East, 

Where  still  the  brown  bird 
sings,  the  tulip  flowers, 
The  wine  runs  red,  the 
flute-girl  haunts  the  bowers 
Where  still  the  Poet,  drinking  at  life's  feast 
Smiles  at  the  jest  of  Potter,  Prince  and 

Priest, 

The  doom  of  thrones  and  Babylonian  towers, 
You  who  love  Omar,  you  whose  verses  rest, 
Like  Omar's  longed-for  roses,  on  his  tomb, 
Forgive  the  rashness  that  would  fain  con- 
jure 

The  watcher  of  the  stars,  a  welcome  guest 
Into  your  presence  from  the  cypress  gloom, 
And  glory  of  enchanted  Naishapur  ! 

Justin  Huntly  McCarthy 


TO  CECILIA 

'HE  Wine  of  Life,  the 

Wonder  of  the  Spring, 
The  passionate  madness 

of  the  Nightingale 
Whose  Litany  all  lover's 

lips  must  wail, 
"Farewell,  farewell,  farewell 
to  everything" — 

These  Omar  sang,  and 

these  myself  shall  sing 
In  dreams  beside  some  stream  where  tulips 

sail, 

Red  Argosies,  before  the  scented  gale, 
While  you  recline  on  Caesar's  dust  and 

string 

Your  lute  through  all  the  languid  afternoon 
To  Persian  airs  of  Desert  and  of  Palm, 
Of  green  Oasis  and  of  Gardens  sweet 
With  roses,  where  the  magic  of  the  moon 
In  silver  steeps  the  consecrated  calm 
And  on  the  enchanted  sward  our  shadows 
meet. 

Justin  Huntly  McCarthy 


OMAR  KHAYYAM 

MAR,  dear  Sultan  of  the 

Persian  song, 
Familiar  friend  whom  I 
have  loved  so  long, 
Whose  volume  made 
my  pleasant  hiding- 
place 

From  this  fantastic  world 
of  right  and  wrong. 

My  youth  lies  buried  in  thy  verses;  lo, 
I  read,  and  as  the  haunted  numbers  flow, 

My  memory  turns  in  anguish  to  the  face 
That  leaned  o'er  Omar's  pages  long  ago. 

Alas  for  me,  alas  for  all  who  weep 

And  wonder  at  the  silence  dark  and  deep 

That  girdles  round  this  little  lamp  in  space 
No  wiser  than  when  Omar  fell  asleep. 

Rest  in  thy  grave  beneath  the  crimson  rain 
Of  heart-desired  roses.     Life  is  vain, 
And  vain  the  trembling  legends  we  may 

trace 
Upon  the  open  book  that  shuts  again. 

Justin  Huntly  McCarthy 


IN  A  COPY  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM 

kHESE  pearls  of  thought  in 

Persian  gulfs  were  bred, 
Each  softly  lucent  as  a 

rounded  moon ; 
The  diver  Omar  plucked 

them  from  their  bed, 
FitzGerald  strung  them  on 

an  English  thread. 

Fit  rosary  for  a  queen,  in 
shape  and  hue, 

When  Contemplation  tells  her  pensive  beads 
Of  mortal  thoughts,  forever  old  and  new. 
Fit  for  a  queen  ?  Why,  surely,  then  for  you  ! 

The  moral  ?     Where  doubt's  eddies  toss  and 

twirl         » 

Faith's  slender  shallop  till  her  footing  reel, 
Plunge  :  if  you  find  not  peace  beneath  the 

whirl, 
Groping,  you  may,  like  Omar,  grasp  a  pearl. 

James  Russell  Lowell 


Sultan  and  slave  alike  have  gone  their  way 
With  Bahram  Gur,  but  whither  none  may 

say, 
Yet  he  who  charmed  the  wise  at  Naisha- 

pur 
Seven  centuries  since,  still  charms  the  wise 

to-day. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 


ON  READING  THE  RUBAIYAT  OF 
OMAR  KHAYYAM  IN  A  KENTISH 
ROSE  GARDEN 


ESIDE  a  dial  in  the  leafy 

close, 
Where  every  bush  was 

burning  with  the  Rose 
With  million  roses  falling 

flake  by  flake 
Upon  the  lawn  in  fading 
summer  snows : 


I  read  the  Persian  Poet's  rhyme  of  old, 
Each  thought  a  ruby  in  a  ring  of  gold — 
Old  thoughts  so  young,  that,  after  all  these 

years, 
They're  writ  on  every  rose-leaf  yet  unrolled. 

You  may  not  know  the  secret  tongue  aright 
The  Sunbeams  on  their  rosy  tablets  write ; 

Only  a  poet  may  perchance  translate 
Those  ruby-tinted  hieroglyphs  of  light. 

Mathilde  Blind 


HOUGH  still  the  famous 

Book  of  Kings 
With  strange  memorial 

music  rings, 
i  Firdausi's  muse  is  dead  and 

gone 

As  Kai-kobad  and  Feridon, 
And  Rustum  and  his 

Pahlawan 
Are  cold  as  pre-historic  man. 
— KHAYYAM  still  lives;  his  magic  rhyme 
Is  forged  of  spells  that  conquer  Time, 
The  hopes  and  doubts,  the  joys  and  pains 
That  never  end  while  Man  remains  ; 
The  sin,  the  sorrow  and  the  strife 
Of  good  and  ill  in  human  life ; 
Such  themes  can  ne'er  grow  stale  and  old, 
— Nor  can  the  verse  in  which  they're  told, 
Reflecting  as  it  does  each  phase 
Of  human  thought  and  human  ways. 
The  world  may  roll  through  ages  yet, 
New  stars  may  rise,  old  stars  may  set, 
But  like  the  grass  and  like  the  rain 
Some  things  forever  fresh  remain, 

44 


Some  poets  whom  no  rust  can  touch 
—KHAYYAM  and  HORACE  are  of  such. 
But  while  we  knew  the  Roman's  tongue, 
KHAYYAM  in  vain  for  us  had  sung, 
Till  One  arose  on  English  earth 
Who  to  his  music  gave  new  birth. 
Henceforth,  so  long  as  English  speech 
Shall  through  the  coming  ages  reach, 
The  name  of  Khayyam  will  go  down 
With  such  a  glory  of  renown 
As  ne'er  on  Eastern  poet's  brow 
Has  poured  its  radiance  until  now. 
— And  who  has  wrought  this  spell  of  might 
That  brings  the  hidden  gem  to  Light  ? 
'Twas  One  who  touched  his  harp,  unseen, 
Who  never  wished  to  lift  the  screen 
That  hid  him  from  the  outer  throng, 
But  blameless  lived  and  sang  his  song 
In  modest  tones,  not  over-loud, 
To  shun  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd, 
Now  that  we  know  him — now,  at  last, 
When  o'er  the  threshold  he  hath  passed — 
We'll  love  with  love  that  knows  no  change 
The  Hermit-bard  of  Little  Grange. 

Michael  Kerney 


OMAR  KHEYYAM 


thou,  the  Orient  morn- 
ing's nightingale, 
That,  from  the  darkness 

of  the  Long  Ago, 
Thy  note  of  unpropitiable 

woe 
Cast'st  out  upon  the 

Time-traversing  gale, 
—  Its  burden  still  Life's 
lamentable  tale, 

Too  late  come  hither  and  too  soon  to  go, 
Whence  brought  and  whither  bounden  none 

doth  know 

Nor  why  thrust  forth  into  this  world  of  wail, 
We,  thy  sad  brethren  of  the  western  lands, 
SONS  OF  THE  SECRET  of  this  latter  day, 
We,  who  have  sailed  with  thee  the 

BLOOD-DEVOURING  WAY, 
We,  thy  soul's  mates,  with  thee  join  hearts 

and  hands 
Across  the  abysses  of  eight  hundred  years. 

John  Payne 


OMAR  KHAYYAM  (To  A.  L.) 

AYER  of  Sooth,  and 

Searcher  of  dim  skies  ! 
Lover  of  Song,  and  Sun, 

and  Summertide, 
For  whom  so  many  roses 

bloomed  and  died ; 
Tender  Interpreter,  most 

sadly  wise, 

Of  earth's  dumb  inarticu- 
lated  cries  ! 

Time's  self  cannot  estrange  us,  nor  divide  ; 
Thy  hand  still  beckons  from  the  garden-side, 
Through  green  vine-garlands,  when  the  Win- 
ter dies. 

Thy  calm  lips  smile  on  us,  thine  eyes  are 

wet ; 
The  Nightingale's  full  song  sobs  all  through 

thine, 

And  thine  in  hers, — part  human,  part  divine! 
Among  the  deathless  gods  thy  place  is  set, 
All-wise,  but  drowsy  with  Life's  mingled 

Wine, 
Laughter  and  Learning,  Passion  and  Regret. 

Rosamund  Marriott  Watson 


TOAST  TO  OMAR  KHAYYAM 

Chorus 

N  this  red  wine,  where  Mem- 
ory's eyes  seem  glowing    , 
Of  days  when  wines  were 

bright  by  Ouse  and  Cam, 
And  Norfolk's  foaming  nectar 

glittered,  showing 
What  beard  of  gold  John 

Barleycorn  was  growing, 
We  drink  to  thee  whose  law 
is  nature's  knowing. 

Omar  Khayyam ! 

I 

Star-gazer,  who  canst  read,  when  night  is 

strowing 
Her  scrip tured  orbs  on  time's  frail 

oriflamme, 
Nature's  proud  blazon:  "Who  shall  bless 

or  damn  ? 
Life,  Death,  and  Doom  are  all  of  my  bestow- 


mg!' 


Chorus: 

Omar  Khayyam 


II 

Master  whose  stream  of  balm  and  music, 

flowing 
Through  Persian  gardens,  widened  till  it 

swam — 

A  fragrant  tide  no  bank  of  time  shall  dam — 
Through  Suffolk  meads  where  gorse  and 
may  were  blowing, 
Chorus: 

Omar  Khayyam  ! 

Ill 

Who  blent  thy  song  with  sound  of  cattle  low- 
ing* 
And  caw  of  rooks   that  perch  on  ewe  and 

ram, 
And  hymn  of  lark  and  bleat  of  orphan 

lamb 

And  swish  of  scythe  in  Bredfield's  dewy 
mowing  ? 
Chorus: 

Omar  Khayyam  ! 


49 


IV 
'Twas  Fitz,  "Old  Fitz,"  whose  knowledge, 

farther  going 
Than  lore  of  Omar,  "Wisdom's  starry 

cham," 

Made  richer  still  thine  opulent  epigram; 
Sowed  seed  from  seed  of  thine  immortal 
sowing. 

Chorus: 

Omar  Khayyam ! 

In  this  red  wine,  where  Memory's  eyes  seem 

glowing 
Of  days  when  wines  were  bright  by  Ouse 

and  Cam, 
And  Norfolk's  foaming  neclar  glittered, 

showing 
What  beard  of  gold  John  Barleycorn  was 

growing, 
We  drink  to  thee  whose  lore  is  nature's 

knowing, 

Omar  Khayyam. 

Theodore  Watts 


TO  THE  TENT  MAKER 


HY  fateful  mystery  still 

mocks  the  eye, 
Ah,  hast  thou  told  us  truth 

or  dost  thou  lie  ? 
Awful  is  thy  philosophy 

—  or  sweet, 
And  doubting  must  we 

bide  until  we  die. 


Yet  if  we  live  beneath  thy 
teachings,  say, 

What  if  we  find  thou  knewest  not  the  way, 
And  dead  and  strayed  and  lost  and  damned 

we  burn, 
Shall  we  not  curse  the  counsels  of  thy  clay  ? 

We  know  that  thou  art  potent  in  our  hearts, 
And  long  to  take  the  word  thy  song  imparts, 
But  know  not,  hesitate,  and  seek  again — 
Our  seeking  answerless  to  thee  departs. 


Gay  is  thy  voice,  thou  singst  the  Song  of 

Wine, 
That  all  men's  cares  yield  to  the  gladsome 

vine ; 

But  is  thy  joy  less  sad  than  all  our  woe, 
And  art  thou  dust,  Oh  Mocker,  as  thy 

Shrine  ? 

Thomas  Wood  Stevens 


RUBAIYAT  TO  OMAR  KHAYYAM 


Persian  OMAR  !  would 
thou  wert  alive  again  ! 

Then  might  we  surely  see 

thee  strive  again 
To  gather  from  the  bit- 
ter flowers  of  Fate 

Sweet  honey  for  our 
human  hive  again. 


The  stars  still  shine  as  once  they  brightly 

shone, 
When,  as  they  watched  thy  terrace,  nightly 

shone 

The  answering  flashes  of  thy  love  and  hate, 
And  red  gleams  of  the  wine-cup  lightly 

shone ! 

The  blood-red  petals  from  the  roses  fall,  as 

then  they  did, 
Death  for  us  moderns  likewise  closes  all,  as 

then  it  did; 
We  know  not  more  than  thou  didst  know 

of  life-to-be ; 
The  ruthless  Wheel  of  Heaven  disposes  all, 

as  then  it  did. 

53 


But  thy  example  makes  us  brave  to  face  our 

Fate: 
There  may  be  love  beyond  the  grave  to  grace 

our  Fate, 
And  we,  meanwhile,  will  keep  alive  the 

glow  of  life,  to  be 
Worth  saving  if  great  ALLAH  deign  to  save, 

to  grace  our  Fate. 

And  so  accept  this  volume  as  a  meed  of  praise, 
Altho'  thy  Fame,  so  stablished,  hath  no 

need  of  praise, 
And  thou  thyself  art  very  far  away  from 

us — 
So  far,  thou'd'st  not  take  heed   of  blame  or 

heed  of  praise. 

A  score  of  zealous  poets  have  translated  thee 
In  tongues  unheard  of  when  the  Mollahs 

hated  thee, 
And  now  accept  their  tribute,  and  this  lay 

from  us, 

For  whom  thy  living  words  have  recreated 
thee! 

Nathan  Haskell  Dole 


OMAR  KHAYYAM 


EADING  in  Omar  till  the 

thoughts  that  burned 
Upon  his  pages  seemed  to 

be  inurned 
Within  me  in  a  silent  fire, 

my  pen 

By  instinct  to  his  flowing 
metre  turned. 


Vine-crowned  free-thinker 
of  thy  Persian  clime — 

Brave  bard,  whose  daring  thought  and  mys- 
tic rhyme 

Through  English  filter  trickles  down  to  us 
Out  of  the  lost  springs  of  an  olden  time — 

Baffled  by  life's  enigmas,  like  the  crowd 
Who  strove  before  and  since  to  see  the  cloud 
Lift  from  the  mountain  pinnacle  of  faith  — 
We  honor  still  the  doubts  thou  hast  avowed  ; 

And  fain  would  round  the  half-truth  of  thy 

dream  ; 
And  fain  let  in,  if  so  we  might,  a  beam 

55 


Of  purer  light  through  windows  of  the  soul, 
Dividing  things  that  are  from  things  that 
seem. 

True,  true,  brave  poet,  in  thy  cloud  involved, 
The  riddle  of  the  world  stood  all  unsolved ; 
And  we  who  boast  our  broader  views  still 

grope 
Too  oft  like  thee,  though  centuries  have 

revolved. 

Yet  this  we  know.    Thy  symbol  of  the  jar 
Suits  not  our  Western  manhood,  left  to  mar 
Or  make,  in  part,  the  clay  'tis  moulded  of; 
And  the  soul's  freedom  is  its  fateful  star. 

Not  like  thy  ball  thrown  from  the  player's 
hand, 

Inert  and  passive  on  a  yielding  strand ; 
Or,  if  a  Ball,  the  rock  whence  it  rebounds 

Proves  that  the  ball  some  license  may  com- 
mand. 

But  though  thy  mind,  which  measured  Jove 

and  Mars, 
Lay  fettered  from  the  Unseen  by  bolts  and 

bars 

56 


Of  circumstance,  one  truth  thy  spirit  saw  — 
The  mystery  spanning  life  and  earth  and  stars. 

Dervish  and  threatening  dogma  were  thy  foes. 

The  question  though  unanswered  still  arose, 

And  through  the  revel  and  the  wine-cups 

still 
The  honest  thought :  "Who  knows,  but 

One  —  who  knows?" 

As  I  read  again  each  fervent  line 

That  smiles  through  sighs,  and  drips  with 

fragrant  wine  — 
And  Vedder's  thoughtful  muse  has  graced 

the  verse 
With  added  jewels  from  the  Artist's  mine — 

I  read  a  larger  meaning  in  the  sage  — 
A  modern  comment  on  a  far-off  age  ; 

And  take  the  truth,  and  leave  the  error  out 
That  casts  its  light  stain  on  the  Asian  page. 

Christopher  P.  Cranch 


ON  THE  FLY-LEAF  OF  A  COPY  OF 
OMAR 

EEM  not  this  book  a  Creed  ; 

'tis  but  the  cry 
Of  one  who  fears  not  Death, 

yet  would  not  die  ; 
Who  at  the  table  feigns, 

with  sorry  jest, 
To  love  the  wine  the  Mas- 
ter's hand  has  pressed  — 
The  while  he  loves  the 
absent  Master  best  — 
The  bitter  cry  of  love  for  love's  reply. 

Arthur  Sherburne  Hardy 


TO  OMAR  KHAYYAM 

Thy  book  defies  thy  creed,  for  there  doth  sing 
The  undying  self  from  baser  uses  shriven. 

Thou  hast  snatched  a  feather  from  an  angel's 

wing 
To  write, — -  There  is  no  heaven  ! 

Anna  Poole  Beardsley 


THE  RUBAIYAT 

WELL  here  three  sad,  sweet 

spirits ;  perfume  born 
Of  fading  rose-leaves,  vision 

of  the  thorn, 
Behind  each  flower  of  joy 

in  Life's  Bouquet, 
And  one  long  sigh  we  make 
too  oft  to  scorn. 

"A  hair  perhaps  divides 
the  false  and  true  ;" 
Or  false  or  true  thy  verses,  we  this  due 

Of  meed  bestow  on  one  most  bitter-sweet : 
We  read  and  dream,  then  dream  and  read 
anew. 

Charles  P.  Nettleton 


AFTER  OMAR 


E  strive  for  fame  —  pray 

tell  me  what  is  fame  ? 
A  little  clapping  of  the 

hands  —  a  name 
Upon  the  tongues  of  men 

—  a  fitful  fire, 
And  then  a  wind  that 

quenches  fire  and 

flame. 

We  are  all  weak  and  made  of  common  dust, 
The  god  within  us  linked  with  vulgar  lust, 

The  spirit  ever  warring  with  the  flesh, 
Till  back  within  the  earth  our  bones  are 
thrust. 

William  Reed  Dunroy 


A  CLOSE  UPON  THE  TWELFTH 
RUBAIYAT  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM 

Dedicated  to  T.  N.  by  P.  G.  the  sixteenth 
night  of  June. 

"A  book  of  verses  underneath  the  bough, 
"A  jug  of  wine,  a  loaf  of  bread  —  and  thou 
"Beside  me  singing  in  the  wilderness —  , 
"Oh,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow  !" 

FT  have  the  footsteps  of 

my  soul  been  led 
By  thee,  sweet  OMAR, 
far  from  hum  of  Toil 
To  where  the  Chenar  trees 
their  plumage  spread 
And  tangly  wild  grape- 
vines the  thickest  coil; 
Where  distant  fields, 
scarce  glimpsed  in  Noon  content 
Are  lush  with  verdure  quick  upon  the  plough, 
Where  trills  the  Nightingale  beneath  the  Tent 
Of  Heaven,  uttering  her  soft  lament ; 
There  have  I  sat  with  Thee  and  conned  ere 

now 
A  book  of  Verses  underneath  the  bough. 

62 


When  from  the  City's  raucous  din  new-freed, 
I  quaff  thy  Wisdom  from  the  clearing  Cup 
Of  Rubaiyat,  then,  even  as  I  read, 
I  seem  with  Thee  in  Persian  groves  to  sup 
On  Bread  of  YEZDAKHAST  and 

SHIRAZ  wine 

That  lifts  the  Net  of  Care  from  off  the  Brow. 
These  Words,  that  tongue  the  Spirit  of  the 

Vine, 
Speak  from  the  Veil,  and  lo  !  the  voice  is 

Thine  : 
Then  is  my  Wish  —  would  Fate  that  Wish 

allow  — 
A  Jug  of  Wine,  a  Loaf  of  Bread  —  and  Thou. 

Although  I  tread  the  Wilderness  of  Life, 
Thy  song  can  waft  me  to  that  careless  Clime, 
Where  enter  in  nor  Memories  of  Strife, 
Nor  Ghosts  of  Woe  from  out  the  Gulf  of 

Time. 
There,  by  thy  side,  great  OMAR,  would  I 

stray, 

And  drink  the  juice  that  has  forgot  the  Press. 
(A  Pot,  the  Potter  shaped  but  yesterday, — 
Tomorrow  will  it  be  but  broken  clay  ?) 
With  only  Thee,  the  toilsome  Road  to  bless, 
Beside  me  singing  in  the  wilderness  ! 

63 


When  thou  dost  scorn  the  Waste  and  mourn 

the  Rose, 

That  dies  upon  the  World's  too  sinful  Breast, 
In  thy  Disdain  a  wondrous  beauty  glows, 
Unfolding  Visions  of  a  Life  more  blessed. 
Then  from  thy  NAISHAPUR  in 

KHORASSAN, 

I  seem  to  wander,  though  I  know  not  how, 
Within  the  glittering  Gates  of  JENISTAN, 
Supreme  SHADUKIAM  I  wondering  scan  : 
Though  still  I  walk  the  Wilderness,  I  vow  — - 
Oh,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow  ! 

Porter  Garnett 


THE  LOVE  OF  A  SUMMER  DAY 

(The  Chap-Book) 

"A  book  of  verses  underneath  the  bough, 
"A  jug  of  wine,  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  thou 
"Beside  me  singing  in  the  wilderness  : 
"Oh,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow  !" 

would  rather  be  loved  by  you, 

sweet, 

Than  all  of  the  world  beside, 
I  would  rather  one  day  with  you, 

sweet, 

On  the  brink  of  a  summer  tide, 
With  a  song  we  could  sing  to- 
gether, 

And  a  crystal  of  ruddy  wine 
Than  a  century's  summer  weather 
And  another  love  than  thine. 

I  would  rather  be  crowned  with  you,  sweet, 
Than  to  king  with  the  fairest  queen. 

I  would  rather  be  poor  with  you,  sweet, 
'Neath  the  shadowy  beeches  green, 

65 


With  your  cheek  on  my  own  cheek  dreaming 

And  your  kisses  upon  my  face, 
Than  to  lie  amid  treasures  gleaming 

In  another  love's  embrace. 

I  would  rather  be  near  to  you,  sweet, 

Than  to  win  an  immortal  name. 
I  would  rather  be  dear  to  you,  sweet, 

Than  to  leave  an  undying  fame 
In  the  minds  of  a  mighty  throng,  sweet, 

For  man's  memory  fades  away, 
And  there's  nothing  that  lasts  so  long,  sweet, 

As  the  love  of  a  summer  day. 

John  Bennett 
(Copyright  1895,  by  H.  S.  Stone  &  Co.) 


OVER  THE  ROSE-LEAVES, 
UNDER  THE  ROSE 

(The  Chap- Book) 

"One  thing  is  certain  and  the  rest  is  lies  ; 
"The  flower  that  has  once  blown  forever  dies." 

HY  did  you  say  you  loved 

me  then, 

If  this  must  be  the  end  ? 
Can  so  much  more  than 

lover  be 

So  far  much  less  than  friend? 
You  say  "Suppose  we  had 
not  met" 

Beneath  this  Provence 

rose ; 

Suppose  we  had  not  loved  at  all ! 
Suppose,  dear  heart,  suppose  ? 

Suppose  beside  some  common  road 

There  bloomed  a  common  rose, 
As  this  one  crimsons  all  the  air 

Within  the  garden  close, 
Suppose  you  plucked  it,  passing  by, 

And  spread  its  petals  wide, 
Until  the  sweetness  of  its  heart 

Filled  all  the  country-side. 


Suppose  you  wore  it  on  your  breast 

One  careless  summer  day  ; 
Suppose  you  kissed  it  once  —  or  twice  — 

To  pass  the  time  away, 
Then  tore  it  slowly  leaf  from  leaf, 

As  I  have  torn  this  rose, 
Until  you  bared  its  very  soul, 

Tou  would  not  ?  Well,  suppose  ! 

Suppose  you  stripped  its  very  soul 

Down  to  life's  golden  core, 
Till  heart  and  life  and  soul  were  yours, 

And  there  was  nothing  more 
A  rose  could  give  to  please  your  sense 

Or  win  a  passing  smile ; 
Then  dropped  it  in  the  pathway  —  thus  — 

No  longer  worth  your  while. 

And  then  —  suppose  those  scattered  leaves 

Were  days  we  two  have  shared  — 
You  need  not  say  you  counted  them  ; 

You  need  not  say  you  cared  — 
Could  all  the  counting,  all  the  care, 

Or  all  my  foolish  pain 
Put  that  one  rose  together,  dear, 

Or  make  it  bloom  again  ? 

John  Bennett 
(Copyright  1 898,  by  H.  S.  Stone  &  Co.) 


IN  OMAR 


H  Y  did'st  thou  say,  O 

King  of  all  the  Wise, 
Maker  of  Tents,  and 

Searcher  of  the  Skies — 
Why  did'st  thou  say  we 

dust  to  dust  descend 
And  lie  sans  Song,  sans 

Singer  and  sans  — 

End? 

How  can  it  be,  the  Echo  of  that  song 
Thou  sang'st  in  Naishapur,  the  Speftral 

Throng 

All  jealous  of  the  Silence  of  the  Tomb 
Withhold  or  grimly  smother  in  the  gloom  ! 

Is't  so,  sweet  Singer  of  Immortal  Song! 
Then  powerless  to  right  Eternal  Wrong 

We  yet  may  quaff,  in  memory  of  thy  soul, 
What  thou  did'st  brew,  nor  emptied  in  this 
Bowl. 


Gardner  C.  feall 


OMAR  KHAYYAM 

N  Naishapur  his  ashes  lie 
O'ershadowed  by  the 

mosque's  blue  dome ; 
There  folded  in  his  tent  of  sky 
The  star  of  Persia  sleeps  at 
home. 

The  rose  her  buried  nightingale 
Remembers,  faithful  all  these 

years ; 

Around  his  grave  the  winds  exhale 
The  fragrant  sorrow  of  her  tears. 

Sultans  and  Slaves  in  caravans 

Since  Malik  Shah  have  gone  their  way, 
And  the  ridges  of  the  Kubberstans 

Are  their  memorials  today. 

But  from  the  dust  in  Omar's  tomb 
A  Fakir  has  revived  a  Rose, — 

Perchance  the  old,  ancestral  bloom 

Of  that  one  by  the  mosque  which  blows. 

70 


Out  of  its  petals  he  has  caught 

The  inspiration  Omar  knew, 
Who  from  the  stars  his  wisdom  brought, 

A  Persian  Rose  that  drank  the  dew. 

The  Fakir  now  in  dust  lies  low 

With  Omar  of  the  Orient; 
FitzGerald, —  shall  we  call  him  ?  No  : 

'Twas  Omar  in  the  Occident ! 

Frank  Dempster  Sherman 


OMAR  RE-SUNG 

McCarthy  ,  367 

AY,  who  will  buy  this 

earth  ? 
Two  barley  corns  will 

take  it  ; 

If  you  have  one  of  worth, 
Then  only  one  I'll  make  it. 
Bring  wine  ;  this  life  is  vain 
Without  the  ring  of  laugh- 

ter; 

There  is  no  sense  in  pain, 
Here  nor  in  hereafter. 


McCarthy, 

Why  frown  upon  thy  fate  ? 
Oh,  rather  with  a  smile 
Go  meet  her  at  the  gate 
And  laugh  with  her  the  while. 
Let  every  moment  be 
A  little  dream  of  bliss, 
Which,  as  it  flies  from  thee, 
Takes  hence  a  loving  kiss. 

72 


McCarthy^  413 

Tranquility,  O  friend, 

Should  thy  good  motto  be  ; 

Think  not  upon  the  end, 

Nor  of  eternity. 

What  thou  hast  done  or  thought 

Is  but  an  atom's  vaunt  — 

Too  small,  where  stars  are  wrought, 

For  merit  or  for  taunt. 

McCarthy ',  370 

Now  nightingales  rejoice 
And  roses  scent  the  air, 
And  lo  !  the  fountain's  voice 
Is  laughing  everywhere. 
What  time  have  we  to  ope 
The  musty  Koran,  Sweet, 
When  nature,  full  of  hope, 
Flings  lyrics  at  our  feet  ? 

Charles  G.  Elanden 


A  REMINISCENCE  OF  OMAR 
KHAYYAM. 

sometimes  wonder  when  I  see 

the  rose 
Rest  on  Her  bosom,  where  my 

head  has  lain, 
Whether,  when  She  is  dust,  that 

rose's  seed 

Will  find  its  nursery  there  and 
bloom  again. 

I  sometimes   wonder  if  the  jes- 
samine, 

Which  added  fragrance  to  her  fragrant  hair, 
Will  with  it  later  make  a  common  cause 
And  bloom  again  to  make  another  fair. 

But  most  I  wonder  if  the  flower  of  love, 
Which  lay  upon  the  soul  I  could  not  see, 

Will  find  its  fellows  in  Elysian  fields 
And  bloom  again  to  bless  and  welcome  me. 

Ah,  yes,  methinks  the  God  who  loves  the 

rose, 
And  loves  the  jessamine  in  my  lady's  hair, 

Will  love  the  love  that  decorates  her  soul, 
And  will  not  fail  to  make  my  heaven  more 
fair. 

*  George  Somes  Layard 


IN  NAISHAPUR. 

N  Naishapur,  when  Omar  wrote, 
No  nightingale  with  lusty 

throat 
Carolled  a  clearer,  sweeter 

note 
In  Naishapur. 

He  saw  the  yellow  roses  swoon 
Beneath  the  kisses  of  the  June, 

And  the  star  blossoms  of  the  night 

Opened  their  petals  to  his  sight. 

He  sang  of  life,  and  death,  and  woe, 
A  thousand  years  or  so  ago ; 
The  north  winds  o'er  him  rose  leaves  throw 
In  Naishapur. 

Robert  Loveman 


THE  RUBAIYAT. 


MAR  Khayyam,  you're 
a  jolly  old  Aryan, 
Half  sybaritic,  and  semi- 
barbarian, 
Not  a  bit  mystic,  but 

utilitarian, 
Fond  of  a  posy  and  fond 

of  a  dram. 

Symbolist,  poet,  and 
clear— eyed  philosopher. 
Had  you  a  wife  I  am  sure  you  were  boss  of 

her, 

Yet  you'd  be  ruled  by  the  coquettish  toss  of 
her 

Garland  crowned  head  at  you,  Omar  Khay- 
yam. 

For  their  vanity, 
In  your  humanity, 
Else  your  urbanity, 
Were  but  a  flam. 
And  the  severity 
Of  your  austerity 


Proves  your  sincerity, 

Omar  Khayyam. 

Well  I  remember  when  first  you  were  her- 
alded, 

Persian-born  poesy,  ably  FitzGeralded  ; 

Impulse  said  buy  you  —  and  I  to  my  peril 
did: 

Now  a  meek  slave  to  your  genius  I  am. 

Some  of  your  doctrines  to  us  may  seem 
hatable, 

Though  we  admit  that  the  themes  are 
debatable  ; 

But  your  ideas,  are  they  really  translatable 

Into  our  languages,  Omar  Khayyam  ? 

In  your  society 

All  inebriety 

Seems  but  propriety 

Truth  but  a  sham  ; 

And  the  reality 

Of  your  carnality 

Courts  immortality, 

Omar  Khayyam. 

From  the  grave  depths  of  your  massive  tran- 
quility 

77 


Thoughts  you  produce,  knowing  well  their 

futility, 

Thoughts  that  you  phrase  with  a  fatal  facility, 
Hurl  with  the  force  of  a  battering  ram  ! 
But  we  care  not  though  your  message  be 

cynical, 

Not  very  creedal  and  scarcely  rabbinical ; 
We,  your  adorers,  put  you  on  a  pinnacle, 
For  that  we  love  you,  old  Omar  Khayyam. 
Though  you're  erroneous, 
Still  you're  harmonious, 
And  you're  euphonious 
In  epigram. 
O'er  the  censorious 
You  are  victorious ; 
We  hold  you  glorious, 
Omar  Khayyam. 

Carolyn  Wells 


Here  be  words  from  those  without  the 
gates. 


TO  OMAR  KHAYYAM 

[ATE  from  thy  face  the 

veil  of  darkness  clears; 
Thy  name  now  rings  for- 
ever in  our  ears ; 
So  that  we  wonder  as  we 

listen,  how 

We've  done  without  thee 
this   eight  hundred 
years. 

We  wonder  if  thy  critics  bade  thee  take 
Thy  rhymes  elsewhere,  and  hint  that  thou 

wouldst  make 
A  good  vine-dresser,  or  might'st  guide  the 

plough ; 
And  bid  thee  sing  no  more  for  pity's  sake. 

Thou  hadst  a  secret,  so  our  young  men  say, 
World-weary  youths  who  writhe  and  groan 

that  they 
Were  born  to  solve  the  "Where,"  the 

"How,"  but  tell 
Us  nought  besides  of  thy  strange-titled  lay. 

80 


Hadst  thou  of  that  red  wine  a  famous  brand, 
Sinless  of  aching  head  or  trembling  hand  ? 
Couldst  thou  unpricked  a  rosy  wreath  en- 
twine ? 

Lies  here  the  riddle,  Omar,  thou  hadst 
planned  ? 

What  loss  if  thou  hadst  laid  its  answer  bare! 
One  theme  the  less  !  one  passion  less  to  tear! 
And  he  who  sips  this  monthly  draught  of 

rhyme 
Will  know  that  themes  are  getting  somewhat 

rare. 

Thou  art  a  storehoitse  for  our  rhymester  crew, 
They  read  thee  not —  that  were  too  much  to 

do  — 
But  cull  thy  telling  bits  and  quote  them 

free, 
Till  men  believe  that  they  are  poets  too. 

For  folk  uncultured  know  not  of  thy  song, 
Thou  art  too  high,  too  deep,  perchance  too 

long. 

But  to  the  spouters  of  thy  sample  lines 
They  give  high  place  the  bardic  ranks  among. 

81 


And  so  these  win  a  name.    Wise  Omar,  say, 

Old  man,  hadst  thou  a  secret  that  would  pay 

So  well  as  this  ?     The  world  is  for  the 

West, 
And  Eastern  secrets  now  have  had  their  day. 


THE  RUBAIYAT  OF  O'MARA 
KHAYVAN. 

Eran  (Iran?)  year  of  the  Hegira  94  —  Via 
Brooklyn. 

AKE,  for  the  night  that 

lets  poor  man  forget 
His  daily  toil  is  past,  and 

in  Care's  net 
Another  day  is  caught 

to  gasp  and  fade ; 
OH!  but  my  weary  bones 
are  heavy  yet ! 

Wake  !  son  of  kings  that 
bears  a  hod  on  high, 
And  builds  the  world.     The  red  sun  mounts 

the  sky 

And  circles  squares  in  the  cot's  every  chink 
And  gilds  ephemeral  motes  that  whirl  and  die. 

Wake  !  for  the  bearded  goat  devours  the  door ! 
And  now  the  family  pig  forbears  to  snore, 
And  from  his  trough  sets  up  the  Persian's 

cry  — 
"Eat !  Drink  !  Tomorrow  we  shall  be  no 

more  !" 

83 


Eat,  drink  and  sleep  !     Aye,  eat  and  sleep 

who  can  ! 
I  work  and  ache.     The  beast  outstrips  the 

man  ; 

And  when  oblivion  bids  the  sequence  end, 
Which  shall  we  say  has  best  filled  nature's 

plan  ? 

When  on  Gowanus'  hills  the  whistle  blows 
What  dreams  are  mine  of  HanV  wine-red 

rose? 
And  when  I  drag  my  leaden  feet  toward 

home 
No  sensuous  bulbul  note  woos  to  repose. 

I  envy  the  dull  brute  my  hand  shall  slay. 
He  lifts  no  stolid  eye  above  the  clay. 
I,  longing,  on  the  cloud-banked  verge 

discern 
"Unborn  To-morrow  and  dead  Yesterday." 

What  is  the  Cup  to  lips  that  may  not  drain? 
Or  fleeting  joy  to  lives  conceived  in  pain  ? 
Toil  and  aspire  is  still  the  common  lot, 
Stumbling  to  rise  and  rising  fall  again. 


And  is  this  all  ? .  Shall  skies  no  longer  shine, 
Or  stars  lure  on  the  themes  that  seem  divine  ? 
Ah,  Maker  of  the  Tents  !  is  this  thy 

hope  — 
To  feed  and  grovel  and  to  die  like  swine  ? 

William  Mclntosh 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE 
By  O..r  K....m 

AKE  !  for  the  closed 
Pavilion  doors  have 
kept 

Their  silence  while  the 
white-eyed  Kaffir 
slept, 

And  wailed  the  night- 
ingale with  "Jug, 

Jug>  Jug  ! " 
Whereat,  for  empty  cup,  the  White  Rose 
wept. 

Enter  with  me  where  yonder  door  hangs  out 
Its  Red  Triangle  to  a  world  of  drought, 

Inviting  to  the  Palace  of  the  Djinn, 
Where  Death,  Aladdin,  waits  as  Chuckerout. 

Methought,  last  night,  that  one  in  suit  of  woe 

Stood  by  the  Tavern  door  and  whispered,"Lo, 

The  Pledge  departed,  what  avails  the  Gup? 

Then  take  the  Pledge  and  let  the  Wine-cup 

go-" 


86 


But  I:  "For  every  thirsty  soul  that  drains 
This  Anodyne  of  Thought  its  rim  contains  — 

Free-will  the  Can,  Necessity  the  Must  : 
Pour  off  the  Must,  and,  see,  the  Can  remains. 


"Then,  pot  or  glass,  why  label  it  ' 

Care?' 
Or  why  your  Sheepskin  with  my  Gourd 

compare  ? 

Lo  !  here  the  Bar,  and  the  only  Judge  ; 
Oh,  Dog  that  bit  me,  I  exact  an  hair  !" 

We  are  the  Sum  of  things,  who  jot  our 

score 

With  Caesar's  clay  behind  the  Tavern  door  ; 
And  Alexander's  armies,  —  where  are  they, 
But  gone  to  Pot,  —  that  Pot  you  push  for 

more  ? 

And  this  same  jug  I  empty,  could  it  speak, 

Might  whisper  that  itself  had  been  a  Beak, 

And  dealt  me  Fourteen  Days  "without 

the  Op." 
Your  Worship,  see,  my  lip  is  on  your  cheek. 


Yourself  condemned  to  three  score  years  and 

ten, 

Say,  did  you  judge  the  ways  of  other  men  ? 
Why,  now,  sir,  you  are  hourly  filled  with 

wine, 
And  has  the  clay  more  license  now  than  then  ? 

Life  is  a  draught,  good  sir ;  its  brevity 
Gives  you  and  me  our  measures,  and  thereby 
Has  docked  your  virtue  to  a  tankard's  span, 
And  left  of  my  criterion  —  A  Cri'  ! 


RECENT  RUBAIYAT 
(By  Omar's  Ghost.) 

OWN  in  the  Grave  the  dead 

men  drink  no  more, 
Alas  !  nor  e'er  ajar  is  here  a 

door, 
And  over-baked,  my 

brother,  is  the  Clay, 
Wherein  the  amber  wine  we 
used  to  pour! 

Nay  here,  among  the  dusky 
Groves  of  Death, 
There  comes  no  moon  the  Dusk  that  light- 

eneth, 
And  here  the  Nightingale  hath  Naught  to 

say, 

And  here  the  Rose  hath  lost  her  scented 
Breath  ! 

So  were  the  Blossoms  blowing  on  the  tree, 
And  now  the  Dust  about  the  Roots  are  We, 

And  seldom  comes  now  a  kindly  Soul 
To  drench  the  thirsty  Lips  of  Thee  and  Me  ! 


About  the  old  Mahogany  they  sit, 
Our  Friends,  and  dream  themselves  the 

Mouth  of  Wit. 

Doth  one  remember  us  and  spill  the  Bowl 
For  us  beneath  the  Daisies  P     Out  on  it ! 

Alas  !  were  We  alive,  and  They  were  dead, 
A  kind  Libation  to  their  Dust  I'd  shed  ; 
We  are  the  white,  that  were  the  purple 

Rose, 
Their  Burgundy  might  lend  us  of  its  red. 

Suppose  I  sent  them  up  a  Telegram, 
Much  would  they  care  for  Omar,  called 

Khayyam  ? 
Nay  You,  that  might  be  more  polite,  you 

doze, 
As  I  were  boring  you  —  perchance  I  am  ? 

When  once  one  gets  the  Hang  of  it,  I  think 
That  rhyming  is  as  easy  as  to  drink. 
Alas  !  give  Me  the  Cup,  and  spare  the 

Pen; 
Alas  !  give  me  the  Wine,  and  take  the  Ink  ! 


90 


Translating  and  translating  me  they  go, 
Philologists  and  Women,  even  so, 

Fitzgerald,  Thou  alone  of  later  Men, 
Who  try  the  Trick,  the  Trick  didst  really 
know! 


Here  is  an  end  of  Spoil  of  the  North  Wind, 
being  certain  fugitive  verse  gathered  together 
and  made  into  a  book  by  Edward  Martin 
Moore.  The  cover,  title-page  and  initials 
were  designed  for  this  book  by  Frank  B. 
Rae,  Jr.  Printed  and  published  by  Lang- 
worthy  &  Stevens  at  the  BLUE  SKY  PRESS, 
which  is  Upstairs  at  Woodlawn  Avenue  and 
Fifty-fifth  street  in  Chicago.  MCMI. 


Hu 


. 


